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Friday, December 24, 2010

I saw a special on gift-giving and the Christmas present tradtion on BBC news last night that was really eye-opening. Their human behavior expert was adamant about how we started giving gifts because they cement social relationships. It's a way of enforcing bonding for us, a tangible reminder that we care a lot about that particular person. However, once the gift is out of our hands, the way it's received is a little more ambiguous: The recipient can see it as a token of appreciation, or an admittance of guilt, apparently, which is what makes us so anxious as we give it and they open it. (High adrenaline stakes, perhaps?) Effort, thoughts and feelings that go into finding the right gift that show how much, or how little, we care about the person we're buying for. Or, at least, that's how it's supposed to be.

You can't just buy the esteem that comes with real bonding, as I've found on numerous occasions. While our society places the whole gift-giving dynamic on men treating women, for the majority of my life, I apparently mis-read the memo, and did all the treating while reaping absolutely none of the rewards, other than that "oh my god, does he even like this?" feeling. For my last long-ish term on-again, off-again guy, I bought him a leather jacket in Italy. Its wear-life already has outlasted our relationship. It's a nice coat. He stills wears it. I'm still don't regret buying it for him. But that's just the tip of my over-spending on the less-fair sex.

It all started with my first boyfriend. I was 16, didn't even really like him all that much, and yet still dropped over $80 on him for our first Christmas-- an Irish necklace, new boxers, a stuffed dog to replace the one his very real beagle had ripped to shreds, a 6 pack of his favorite beer, and on, and on, and on...just to find out he got me NADA for the holidays, and to also find out he was cheating on me 6 days later. I bought another guy a new hoodie...which I ended up keeping because I loved it so much (we shared custody of it for awhile, anyhow). I couldn't resist buying two soft-as-second-skin t-shirts I found in the most complimentary colors of blue and green for a guy...even though we'd only been seeing each other for a month. I also sent him a care package at college, which facilitated the beginning of our blow up. I used to buy my senior year of high school boyfriend chocolate covered gummy bears, his favorite, and sneak them into his soccer bag for after practice. Needless to say, I've always found it nearly ridiculously easy to drop money on guys. And usually, they drop me soon thereafter.

As I pointed out to my mother today, in the current economy, dating has kind of died. Three years ago, I was making more as a part-time sales associate at American Eagle than I am now working 20 hours a week as a peer writing consultant and Champlain's Writing Center. Three years ago, people our age had the ability to take a potential new beau out to dinner at places like Sweetwaters or Halverson's or VPB. Now, as our paycheck shrink and our gas bills get higher and higher, we have to be a little more creative. My roommate was recently taken on a very romantic winter walk in the newest snowfall. My friend Julia's favorite date was at a laundromat-- getting food delivered as they did their laundry. Movies and eating in are becoming in vogue again, because with Netflix and torrenting and streaming online, it's cheaper than going to the movies. Going out to eat and seeing a show has become a thing of the past. Brunches and bowling have replaced them. Dollar drafts at 4 PM are king, and if you can't understand why I want to treat you when I can buy you four beers for the price of one at 10 PM, we're done.

This also means that this year, I'm going light on the Christmas gifts-- I'm doling out small things (mostly, new hats, because they all need them,) from Italy that I bought for Christmas presents for my best guys way back when I left la bella Italia in May, or lending out books to friends that I think will interest them. Alli and I decided we obviously love each other enough without having to prove it with gifts. A girl's night out is the method of choice for holiday cheer with my girls-- nothing says "holiday love" with your set like getting dressed up and drunk. And as for the romantic interest? My smitten-ness will have to be enough...for now.

Merry Christmas to you and yours-- be safe, have fun, make merry! And remember...no one ever went wrong giving the gift of great sex. And it's absolutely free! Amen!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

You know what's really not hot for the holidays? Being sick. And guess who just happened to come down with strep throat during the most romantic time of the year to be playing tongue hockey? That's right-- THIS GIRL.

Among all the things in the world, the image above is NOT something you want in your mouth.

Sunday night I was feeling great. The boy came into town; we watched a movie (NOT in the sense of what it meant in high school-- in the sense we ACTUALLY watched it, or, most of it); I was in high spirits. Monday morning, I woke up to clean the apartment before it was being shown and before I picked my mom up from the airport, and I noticed that my right lymph node on my neck was slightly swollen and a little painful. Now, my throat glands are the rough equivalent of Zac Efron-- they start breaking down if you even just look at them funny and they sure as hell can't take a punch. So I ignored it. Monday afternoon, I zonked out and took a nap like the dead for hours when my body commanded it. When I woke up, BOTH glands on the sides of my throat were swollen. Great. Well, I've got Aleve, and chloraseptic spray, and throat lozenges-- bring it on, bitch. I'm prepared.

NAWWWWWT. Tuesday, I woke up crying because it hurts so much to swallow no one should have to endure that sort of pain, not even Kim Jong-Il, Jack the Ripper, or the Jonas Brothers. Now, I'm a stoic bitch. I'm pretty used to pain. In fact, I'm kind of prone and partial to enjoying it-- if you think I'm faking, ask me about the bruises and welt on my forearms sometime. But, when I'm trying to breathe and swallow and talk, that is not the time to fuck with me about pain. So, after calling my mom and sobbing brokenly to her about it, I woke Alli up and had her drive me to the Fletcher Allen walk-in clinic. Insurance is a grand thing, but still, I spent $30 to have a doctor tell me that my rapid swab turned up negative for strep, and to go home, gargle with salt water (WHICH, by the way, is possibly my LEAST favorite remedy and something I'm sure is COMPLETE bullshit), and get some children's Benadryl and ibuprofen and wait it out. I do all of the above. I sleep a lot. I try to be a trooper. I cry a lot more than I'd like to admit to. I really just wanted some sort of antibiotic from that visit, that's all, and I DON'T think it was too much to ask for. That night, I call the clinic back as rasp at them that I've done everything they told me to as religiously as a pagan can, and if anything, the only things it's gotten me is A.) feeling worse, and B.) producing copious amounts of thick, viscous, slimy saliva that won't go past my engorged glands. Great. Now I'm slowly suffocating to death, and all that they'll tell me to do is wait it out to see if it's an abscess in my tonsils that will need to be DRAINED. Sounds like all the fun you want during your holiday break, right? "Sorry babe, this may not be a great week to come see me...I'm getting my tonsils drained of pus and shit. But you have a Merry Christmas, and we'll be kissing under the mistletoe soon enough?"

Now, I am not the sort of person to WebMD shit. I'm not a hypochondriac, or a germ freak, but mono HAS been going around, and though I had in once before in high school (before I even had ever kissed a guy; it was SUCH a bum deal) and was 95% sure that's not what I had this time, I went to the Mayo Clinic online, because my aunt works there and I trust it, and did some research on strep throat. Armed with a flashlight, the bathroom mirror (I was decidedly NOT the fairest in the land at that moment), and just enough knowledge to be considered dangerous, I looked into deep throat. Well. That's an angry red, and that's certainly swollen, and WAIT...ARE THOSE WHITE SPOTS? YES, THOSE ARE WHITE SPOTS! And wait! IS THAT MY TONSILS TOUCHING MY GLAND? YES, that would be my swollen tonsils touching my swollen, spotty gland. Excuse me, Fletcher Allen, what is going on here? I'm so needlephobic I faint after getting shots and have white-coat syndrome, and even I know strep when I'm staring down my throat at it.

Called my mom. Cried about it some more. Spit some more shit out because I couldn't swallow it. Wiped my running mascara off my cheeks. Was coerced into going home a day early to have real doctor's appointment at my primary care place. I mean, I was convinced I was going to lose my tonsils at this point if this tragic comedy of errors and misdiagnoses continued, so I was willing to brave the Home From Whence I Came for one extra night if it would get me some antibiotics, which Fletcher had made abundantly clear would not be happening there, save possible administration after I, I don't know, DIED.

After listening to my general list on complaints and doing a rapid check of my ears, nostrils, eyes, and throat, it was decided in my hometown doctor's office. "You're showing 3 of the 4 signs of strep, and the only one not there is the test result," Dr. Coombs told me. "At some point you have to put aside the test and start treating the patient." I felt my eyebrows raise, fo' sho', and made some sort of hands-out-shoulder-shrug in mute pantomime of "finally!" I got scripts for not only the antibiotic I so desperately wanted, but also for steroids to speed up the process, and Vicodin for the pain, which I aptly described as being "the worst in my life." I have had my arms broken more than 4 times. I dislocated my collar bone. I've been kicked in the chin by a horse wearing steel shoes who had just thrown me into the wall of the indoor arena. I've had sex with overly well-endowed men. And it's strep throat takes the cake for "Most Painful And Humiliating Moment Of My Life."

So, moral of the story? I paid a $30 dollar co-pay, and $15 worth of bullshit medications to be told nothing was wrong with me and for things that did absolutely nothing for me. And then we paid a $20 co-pay, and under $20 for what I am throughly convinced are the best drugs in the world (I really do NOT understand how steroids and Vicodin can be less than what it costs for a g of greenery), and I feel if not like a million bucks already, but at least like 500,000 grand. I now understand not only why people love Vicodin enough to become addicted to using it recreationally, but also while I was a little confused at first when the doctor said that while the steroids can make me "zingy" and more of an insomniac, the Vicodin might knock me out, now I get it. I promptly went fucking off my rocker, and then passed out on the couch. Euuuuuphooooria.

While I know that this subject matter isn't quite what you're used to if you're a devout reader of SATCG, I feel like it's an important story nonetheless. Moral of the story in more clear, blog-themed wording? Sometimes you don't get what you pay for-- sometimes, it's the less expensive things that have the most effect. Which I think is a really valid point as we come up on Christmas. I.E-- Don't get me jewelry-- get me a new wristband to add to my tatty collection, and I'll wear it every day until it falls off. The end.

XOXO

Sidenote: Steroids make me ridiculously horny? What is this? Why? Aren't they supposed to do the reverse? Or is it because I have no balls to shrink that if affects me the other way? Does anyone have an answer for this?

Thursday, December 16, 2010

I have to admit, I've watched the majority of his videos now. It's so nice and refreshing to have an average Joe talk about the places where men and women go wrong, and get a male perspective on where we differ. What can we learn from this?

#1: Be proactive. If it ain't goin' down, LET HIM KNOW that it ain't goin' down. It's only fair; it's only polite; wouldn't you want him to know sex isn't int he cards before you make a fool of yourself? Extend the same courtesy. As he says, there is nothing wrong with a woman saying no to sex...before sex is literally on the table. Once you let things get to that point and then renege on it...that's when you're a tease, and not in the hot way.

#2: To steal from "He's Just Not That Into You," like he says, you are not the exception. If he's done it before, chances are, he's gonna try to do it with YOU. If you let him, it's your funeral. Only if you stop him and get yourselves on the same page real quick is when he's going to start thinking about you differently than those other 101 girls, because you've made him see you differently. Lately, I've been hearing from more and more men that strong, independent girls who speak their mind and aren't afraid to sass back are the type of girls they're into. This explains why my friend Julia, who was voted "Most Likely To Marry A Rockstar" in her high school yearbook, does so well with me. (She's a reigning Champlain LikeALittle queen.) She never lets herself by lumped in with the rest of the pack. If all the girls are leaning left, she's leaning right. Guys go crazy over her. Emulate. Stop being the meek, "doesn't rock the boat" girl, and being all surprised when you're not getting what you wanted out of a relationship. Lay it all out there. He'll respect you more for it. And sass is hot. I mean, just look at that word. It's already got "ass" in it. Of course it's awesome.

#3: Thou shalt put in as much work as he is. "Everything was cool-- talk on the phone everyday; she would stop in to see me, I'd go past to see her..." The amount that you put into a relationship is proportional with how into it he thinks you are. And vice-versa, for that matter. If you want him to know you're genuinely interested, stop doing the aloof woman shit, and be the one to ask to make a date or see each other. That's when he gets that you're feeling him-- NOT when you wait three hours to respond to his text because your friend Amy told you that you don't want to appear too over-eager. Be smart, like I know all you girls are-- use your judgement about when is a good time to play the game, and when it's not.

#4: If he's paying for your meal, chances are, unless he is a very platonic friend, or the nicest and most generous man in the world with a disposable income, he's gonna want to see something for his Benjamin's. This is no secret or surprise. There are differences between a man paying for your Junior Whopper or paying for your crab leg dinner. One means peaceful co-existing while eating together. The other means "I'm taking this out in sweat from you later." Think about it this way: How many of your male friends, who you've known for years, and consider like the brothers you've never had, have paid for a meal of yours? None of very few? That's right-- that's date territory. And while I'll have my boys over for dinner, or they'll make me spaghetti and homemade meatballs in their humble abode, it's not like they're taking me out to Leunig's downtown for a slice of banana cream pie...and a steak. So, unless you want to sleep with him, or unless you're very, very hungry and very, very poor and don't mind being very, very rude-- don't accept a dinner invitation out with him to somewhere where entrées are over $20.

#5: The ears are the sweet-spot. AMEN. Ears are very dangerous things to play around with. DO NOT go for the ears unless you're ready for the consequences. Men, women, dogs...I don't care what gender or even species you are...the ears are where it's AT. Earlobes are packed full with nerves and are an erogenous zone, don'tcha know? So don't go near my ears unless you want to be having buckwild sex in about .02 seconds, and I won't go near a man's ears unless I want the same. Let's all make a pact right now-- keep your mouth off the ears, and no one will have any mixed signals or wishes that can't or won't be fulfilled, ok?

I'm ridiculously impatient. It's one of my worst character traits, and it always has been-- ask my mother. I was one of those kids who started digging my elbow into her side in the supermarket when I thought that the conversation she was having with the acquaintance she had bumped into in aisle 4 had gone on for long enough, and I was getting hungry. Maybe it's because I'm an only child-- I've always wanted the show to be about ME. I am my own circus. There's a fire under my ass, and I don't have time to wait in line for other people's side acts. At times, this makes dating and relationships-- with ANYONE-- extremely trying.

I try really hard to rein it in, I do. At first, in the honeymoon phase, it's so easy. I can be patient because at first, it always seems great and like it's the answer to all your prayers. I'm as chill as I can possibly be, because I'm out to prove that I am a chill girl who he wants to be spending his time with and on. In the starting phases of any relationship, the "Meet and Greet," if you will, he's excited about you, you're excited about him, neither of you want to leave the other alone. I live for this phase-- I love getting to know people and love spending night sitting up, talking...call it the journalist in me, but I love to know their dirt and what drives them and what they're passionate about. Responses are instantaneous. Someone wants to know what you're doing, all the time. They're asking to see you, making plans, taking charge. God, it's so exhilarating and hot, especially if your previous relationship's attitude on keeping in touch and making plans was decidedly not.

But if this sort of stamina could be kept up, we'd all be in grand romances. As I think we all notice when we look around, we're not. Suddenly, you realize it's been a week since he asked you what night you're free so he can see you. You sit in front of your computer or phone waiting for a answer to a question for 10 minutes, 20 minutes, and then give up and move on. And since you've already covered all the exciting shit about yourselves, conversations are a little more...mundane. After years of reading Cosmo and Glamour and women's magazines, we all know the little tricks to seem more endearing and make sure that you're still in the picture-- making sure to ask them questions about themselves and their day by bringing up specific details to prove that you listened and are interested, sending the cute little random "thinking of you!" messages, pulling your own weight by doing half of the communicating, surprising them with little things from bringing home that new action flick he's been dying to see to sending random sexts to make sure to keep things spiced up, yadda, yadda, yadda. We know we have to be nice. We know we have to be sweet, and entertaining, and patient. A week ago, maybe he was sweeping you off your feet, but this one, maybe he needs to lean on you a little bit. Or maybe you're both getting a little complacent, and there's not that fervent need to prove to the other that you're soooo into them every time you talk. But even when I know everything is copasetic, making me wait 20 minutes to get back to me about something I asked or abruptly leaving a conversation can really get me going and turn me all indignant. And that's when you realize, in a blinding flash of abject horror: Different guy, same shit.

Newness always works like a Band-Aid for a girl's down-and-out dating ego, but feels like a bitch when it wears off and your current Prince Charming is just as late in coming as your previous one was. Are we really ever any better off, or is the grass just always greener on the other side?

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

I was having a conversation with a friend last night while procrastinating taking a shower and catching up with everything due in my Food Writing course that took a decided turn for the philosophical when home-made sex videos came up. As has been previously stated, I have no issues with porn, but there's something that really just rubs me the wrong way (pun intended,) about making your own sex video. Have we learned nothing from Paris Hilton, Pam Anderson, and Rob Lowe? (In researching this, do you know that Fred Durst, frontman of rock band Limp Bizkit, and the wet-dream of my entire middle-school years, had a sex tape leaked? Please believe...my research on this matter is FO' SHO' not stopping here.)

While Cosmopolitan preaches that if you were to create your own D.I.Y home porn star DVD, it's best to be sure that there is only ONE copy recorded, and that it is kept in YOUR possession. However, I have no idea what sort of man would actually agree to this arrangement. Not one like the sort of men that I date, anyhow. All the men I know would consider that a lost cause if they had to take it out on loan, like a sort of very naughty, decidedly not public library. I'd also worry about home invasion after you break up if he has the keys to your place-- funny how your cat burglar would only be interested in what was in the "Lady and the Tramp" DVD case that definitely DID NOT contain children-friendly material.

Then there's movie-quality issues...I am a snob about these sort of things.

Overall, though, my friend and I quickly sorted out the most paramount issue about becoming your own little movie star: That one session is out there. On the records. To be seen. Compared and contrasted to. Judged. It will be impossible to deny the truth of your sex-life from then on. You'll actually see how the interior of your thighs jiggle-- and do you really want to see that? Does ANYONE?

My biggest hang-up on this matter isn't quite so trite, but it goes hand-in-whatever you happen to be groping: My issue is with its repercussion on the future. Not just your personal future, but with all of humanity's future. Though popstars have shown us that you can weather a sex tape scandal, I'm worried about what society in 2125 will think of us.

"It's there.For posterity.Someday, an archeologist will dig it up, and that's what everyone will think sex was like in the 21st century.That is seriously what I always think of-- someone will dig this up someday. And what does that say about myself?"

I'd rather not know for sure what I look like during the act to fulfill my dreams of becoming an actress than have to consider what anthropology students in the future think of my reverse cowgirl. Yikes.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Like any smart person dating or living, I have certain non-negotiables when it comes to men: He must do what he says he will do (have follow-through). He must have initiative (put as much time and energy into planning, talking, and general effort). He must have manners (ack rite, be a gentleman, and know how to hold a fork correctly). He must have self-confidence (sexy). He must love watching football as much as I do and drink PBR (because if you can't agree on your teams or your brews, what in life can you agree on?!). This is like the Holy Grail. I get that every other female on the face of the Earth is looking for this dude; here's hoping I'm just more tenacious in finding him.

And I'm getting closer, what with all these relationship lifestyle changes. For possibly the first time in my life, a guy other than my father or a very platonic male friend is treating me like a princess-- but one in a glass tower, wearing a chastity belt. It's quite possible I'm just hornier and used to taking the bull by the horns (or other things,) and just jumping into bed with it. This would not be a shocking world revelation. As the past has shown, this isn't always the best decision and doesn't tend to lead to being treated like anything more special then a really great lay, which is why strides are being made to Do The Right Thing Here and Play The Game. But it does bring up some questions, other than "Are you even attracted to me? And if not, then why do you guys do all of this?"

But I am not a man. Obviously. And sometimes, when playing with new men, I feel extremely out of my comfort zone. There are things that I know what they mean coming from a woman, but coming from a man, I am completely lost in translation. And when I get lost, I get, well...masculine. Instead of the sweet, flirty, lovable girl I want to be around the men I'd consider letting through the Pearly Gates, my masculinity comes out to play at the wrong time to take charge! and Just Do It. (Obviously, that one's trademarked by Nike.) But despite the gender-bending overtures, I'm still no closer to getting any of this, and I AM attracted! What gives?!

So, today, male readers, you get to do ME a solid and help me decode dude behavior and figure this out. Listed below are some standard actions of men currently engaged in the early stages of getting to know a woman. Preceding them are icons-- a G for if women interpret this behavior as "all systems go!", a ? if we're completely baffled by if this is a good or bad sign, and a R if we take this to be a complete failure in the interest of ever getting it on. Your job is to correct me if I've got the wrong end of the stick on any of this. And ladies, you're not left out of the game, either-- What are some other completely baffling men dating behaviors? Let's sort this the hell out!

[G] If he talks to you every day-- either via in person if it's possible, phone, text, chat, etc.

[?] If he talks about other women who were flirting with him. On one hand, maybe he's trying to feel out how you feel about him by seeing if you're jealous. On the other hand, maybe he wants help in picking them up. I have no idea how to feel about this one.

[R] If he brings up his past relationships. Dudes-- Unless you are asked, point-blank, to discuss your exes or another girl you had a "thing" with, or unless something pertinent happened with them which goes to explain a point in your current relationship-- it is bad form to bring up another woman while talking to a woman. Especially in bed. Don't laugh. That's happened to me, more than once.

[G] If he asks you about your sex life. Then he's thinking about your sex life. (Caveat: Some men are dogs and just want to inappropriately ask you about your sex life with no reason, and no groundwork beforehand. Consider them like hand grenades-- volatile, and apt to destroy with reckless abandon.)

[G] If he tries to validate himself to you as someone awesome-- bragging about prowess, financial status, work, school, or sport accomplishments, etc.

[G] If he initiates contact more than 50% of the time, and makes the plans. What a keeper.

[G] If he tells you flat-out that he wants to do things for you. (I think it's acceptable to take people on their word.)

[?] If he tells you what's wrong with him-- i.e: doesn't consider dating a priority, has anger issues, has mommy issues, has had trouble in the past keeping it between you and him and in his pants, etc. We call this the Lemon Law: Most guys will tell you within two weeks what's wrong with them, or what challenges you're going to face in dealing with them. The good news is, he knows what his issues are, and he's telling them to you. The bad news is, he's normally not so up-front about it-- it'll be snuck into conversation, so you have to be on toes about looking for it and/or noticing it. So, is this enlightenment, or something to fall back on later when he can look at you and say, "I told you I have issues with commitment"?

[R] If he admittedly is not on good speaking terms with his ex, other women he's been involved with, or a majority of people who used to be friends. How he treats or treated them is a great preview into how he'll end up treating you.

And then, there's a flip-side to everything. To make it all even more confusing, here's what it means when a woman does the same exact things. Guys, what you're looking at right here is what we ladies know. This is what we have to work with. So if something you're doing is getting lost in translation and interpreted entirely differently...here's why:

[?] If she talks to you every day-- either via phone, text, chat, or smoke signals, it either means one of two things: She likes you, or she's dependent on you. When women like someone, we want to talk with them, a lot, especially if there's physical distance between them and the other person-- say they don't live in the same town, or have conflicting schedules that makes hanging out difficult. I'm actually weird-- when I've got a crush on someone, I do want to talk with them every day, but after the initial honeymoon phase has worn off, every other day or every two days is enough space for me. However, I get highly dependent on the men in my life-- stopping talking to exes is extremely difficult for me to realign them as a major player in my life to a bench-warmer.

[G] If she talks about other men who were flirting with her. She's trying to make you jealous and see how you really feel about her. All the way. We do this purposefully, all the time, and unless you're the most platonic of our male friends or male coworkers, we're trying to feel you out if you're going to get all caveman on us and grunt, "No! You my woman! I make you mine!" and carry us back to the cave over your shoulder like we're hoping you will.

[R] If she brings up her past relationships. We're either not over it, or we're using it as a warning tale to you about what NOT to do, so, listen close, either way. Same rule applies: Unless he asks, leave it in the past.

[G] If she tries to validate herself to you as someone awesome-- she wants to show you how much better your life could be if she was in it, cooking you breakfast, helping you update your job resume, and making your buddies jealous you have such a smokin' and awesome girlfriend. Oh, yeah-- we think about. We want to make your friends as jealous as you do. Fact.

[R] If she initiates contact more than 50% of the time, and makes the plans. She's secretly a man. Or, at the very least, a severe micro-manager. And is more into it than you obviously are. Recognize it, and let her down gently. (Ladies-- don't lie-- we're liberated and if we can vote, we can sure as hell call him first, but we also know what it means when shit's going bad when you're the one hunting him down to talk more than half the time.)

[G] If she tells you flat-out that she wants to do things for you. She's a keeper. She's there to help. She really digs you, and she's willing to prove it. And if those "things" are sexual in nature-- never let her go.

[G] If she tells you what's wrong with her. Unless she's bat-shit crazy, a woman with issues knows that she's got them. I know mine-- see the note above about how I get masculine when intimidated by big, manly men, among many others. Best be sure I explain myself when it happens. If we're telling you what we get crazy-pants about, it's a good indicator that we're working on those issues, and want to forewarn and forearm you before the shit hits the fan and you're wondering what you ever did to deserve the way we're treating you out of the blue.

[R] If she admittedly is not on good speaking terms with her ex, other men she's been involved with, or a majority of people who used to be friends. Unless all these men and those friends were bastards (which, can be true,) she's a stark-raving psychopath. RUN AWAY, YOU DON'T NEED THIS TROUBLE IN YOUR LIFE. Even some of the most horrible break-ups can result in civil behavior or continued friendships and acquaintances. My most dastardly ex is still someone I spend time with. Granted, some of it is catty, sarcastic time, but we can be at the same place at the same time, nonetheless.

So, are we on the mark? Way off-center? Completely missing the point? Did you learn something? Can you teach me something? We'll all never know unless you tell! That's what that comment box is for.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Even though I'm a little rock-n'-roll in my style, it's taken me a long time to hop on board with the whole tights-under-denim-shorts look. Burlington, Vermont, while extremely fashion-forgiving, is not exactly Florence. This girl, however, rocked the look in way that felt easy enough to emulate with pieces out of my own wardrobe when I was getting dressed this morning in a particularly ass-kicking mood. (I'm also lusting after that men's Bone Idol t-shirt HARDBODY.)

I took this Elvis pompadour skull tee that I got at Zara in Florence, sheer black leggings, and my American Eagle medium wash denim short-shorts and called it a Vermont December day with a studded belt, and my Letizia Ferrari black high-heeled motorcycle booties from Italy. I hunted all over the internet for a photo of them, but alas, failed, so you can see them back in this post here, and here are a few other example of black motorcycle booties that I think work with this look nearly sinfully well:

Just a few hints: Keep it all black from the end of your denims down. This elongates your legs and keeps everything uniform. Some girls can pull off brightly colored tights instead of black, but if you have a midget-sized inseam like I do, black is your best friend.

And think Seattle Grunge. Think Kurt Cobain. Pile on the jewelry and top is all off with a flannel long-sleeve shirt. I roll my cuffs to mid-forearm, always. All the better to show off that jewelry with.

I'm currently trying to make up allllll the work I never did this semester before it ends, and juggle it with my social life. Here's a big mea culpa for being spotty about blogging lately-- unfortunately, it's probably going to continue for the next two weeks, but how about I promise that what I DO finally get around to posting sporadically in between crying myself gently to sleep at night at the thought of having to write another speaker reflection paper for Internship and getting my handle on this thing called "acceptable public interactions with men," they'll be really good, thought-provoking, interesting, dishy posts. Ok? Ok. Cheers.

About Me

If Carrie Bradshaw and Chelsea Handler had a love child, that delightful offspring would be me. I'm a writer by trade in my senior year of college. After six years of active duty in the frontlines of dating, and alternately learning a lot or very little, I started writing down the more hilarious mis-steps, awkward experiences, true facts, and hard-learned lessons I've accumulated. There's love, there's loss, and then there's laughter and finding ex-boyfriends on gay dating websites.
My qualifications include the ability to speak my mind, (most of the time eloquently); a frank and immodest attitude on sex, men, women, and dating; a slew-ton of exes, boyfriends, relationships, "things" and yes, sex; and two marriage proposals by the time I was 18 (true stories).
When I'm not writing the Love and Sex column for Moss On The Moon (mossonthemoon.com), our campus zine, I'm covering real news as an Editor of Champlain College's newspaper, and trying to figure out this whole "relationship" thing in my spare time.